


Disobedience

by polarising



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, Hate Sex, Other, Power Dynamics, mettaton being an asshole? ru never, not quite e-rated yet but we'll get there, title may change yet i just wanted to get this out there first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 04:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16151597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polarising/pseuds/polarising
Summary: You hate your boss, really and truly. You have both set foot on this mutual warpath, determined to make each other’s lives as miserable as possible.However, considering one of you is a rich and powerful celebrity and the other a lousy coffee maker at best, you think you’re not quite on equal grounds with this.





	Disobedience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my past self](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+past+self).



> word of warning when i say 'you hate your boss' i really mean it, this ain't no 'mild dislike to sappy soppy love' fic sis this is 'angry and consensually aggressive'
> 
> condescendingly cunty mtt is my absolute fave to write

 

 

For the seventeenth time today, you hear Mettaton give an extremely irritated-sounding sigh. Considering you don’t grace him with replies to any of them, nor does he follow it up with what’s annoying him, you don’t know why he bothers. Probably just to remind you that he hates you, he doesn’t want you here, you’re shit at your job, and going out of your way to push his buttons every single day makes him regret signing up to the program in the first place.

You don’t literally push his buttons, of course. You’re not allowed anywhere near him. He even wrote it into your fucking contract so you couldn’t keep on flicking his shoulder spikes whenever you walked past. However, he’s also contractually obliged to keep you on for another two months, which means both of you spend your 9-to-5’s in uncomfortable silence, at opposite ends of his office - him, with his luxurious mahogany desk, iMac, and leather chair that was more comparable to a throne, and you, with your fold-out IKEA table with your burnt-out home laptop precariously balanced on top. Oh, and a free pen with ‘MTT’ engraved on the side. You only got one though. Lose it, and you suffer. 

“Look,” he had started through gritted (ceramic?) teeth, no less than three days ago, “I am keeping you here for no reason other than the fact that I have to. I am aware you don’t want to occupy the same space as myself as much as I want to share it with you. It would be best for both of us if you could just sit down, stop running your mouth, and do what’s asked of you.”

“Cools,” you had replied, dismissing him. That would count as one of his…button-pushes, you guess you would call it. To dismiss him was to place yourself above him, to consider yourself better than him, and even being equal to him was too high in the MTT hierarchy. It's him at the top, followed by personal assistants, followed by friends, camera crew and scriptwriters, promoters, anyone else that boosts his ego. Sixth in that ladder are his oh-so-adoring fans. Seventh, his chauffeur, maybe? He doesn’t like that guy much.

Somewhere at the very bottom of the list, second to last place, is water. It fucks his system up so he doesn’t want it anywhere near him in any form. In last place is you. You are at the very bottom of his list, past even things that could kill him in seconds. (Although at the rate this job is going, you figure you could count yourself into that category.)

The sun streams in through the open window, blinding you from your seated position in the corner. Taking this as an opportunity to do nothing, you lean back in your chair with a forced sigh akin to Mettaton’s, nearly toppling backwards in your eagerness to express discontent. He glances upwards from his phone for a second, only moving his eyes to look at you and not even offering you a whole head tilt.

“What. Now.”

“Sun’s too bright. I can’t see shit with it coming through right at me like that. Shouldn’t you be providing better working conditions?”

“Shouldn’t you be getting on with the work that I pay you for?”

"Technically it’s your company that pays me, not you directly. Or agency. Or whatever,” you say, shrugging.

“Alright, I’ll be sure to let them know that you took an extra hour’s lunch break yesterday without permission so that they can dock your so-called ‘earnings’ as they see fit.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re breaking some employment laws there.”

“Well, sometimes life sucks, sweetie.”

Even when mad, Mettaton still uses passive-aggressive pet names. Any time you’ve been called ‘darling’ or ‘sweetheart’ has almost always been after you one-upped him on something and he didn’t have a good reply. They were never meant with any sincerity, which was a good job otherwise you’d be kind of creeped out considering how much he dislikes you.

He leans back in his own chair, once again ignoring you, and picks up a tube of liquid lipstick from his desk. You watch as he unscrews the cap, pumps some of the fluid through with the applicator, and then stares straight ahead - because of course, on the wall opposite him is a mirror so he can always admire himself. You’re placed below that mirror too, both socially and physically, although the positioning of your desk puts you a bit to his left anyways.

The little brush glides over his plump (silicone?) lips, already coated in layers of black velvet that he’d been applying throughout the day for no good reason. You wonder why he wasn’t built with black lips normally if that’s all he ever wears. Obviously by sitting there staring you’re giving him exactly what he wants - attention! - but you can’t help it. Even though you don’t like the guy, you can see why everyone adores him. Or at least, is attracted to him…you guess. There’s something so slick, so buttery smooth about his movements, despite the robotic body. And when he’s speaking nicely to someone, his voice practically drips; it wraps around his tongue like silk, sliding off into a string of sweet names and pure charm—

But he’s a bit of an asshole, so there’s that part too. He can be as hot as he likes, but you’re not going to like him unless he’s actually decent. The only ‘decent’ part about him is that he signed up to the Human/Monster Participation Scheme so that you (or any other human) could land a job in a monster-owned business, in order to slowly start diffusing tensions between the two species and properly integrate both into each other’s societies. You wish now you had just applied to a fast food joint instead, or maybe a coffee shop or something original like that.

“When’s lunch today?” you ask nonchalantly, interrupting his special time with his lipstick. He pauses, narrows his eyes whilst still staring at his own reflection, and then slowly turns his head to scowl at you.

“Not. Yet.”

“But when?”

“When I say you can leave for lunch, then you may leave for lunch, sugar.”

Not liking this reply, you slyly dig your phone out as Mettaton returns to his pout. Tap. Press Home to unlock. Tap. Touch ID or Enter Passcode. Taptaptaptap. Swipe. Tap. Uber Eats. McDonald’s is conveniently suggested for you, with no minimum spend and a 10-minute delivery time to your current location.

Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap. Tap. Taptaptaptap.

Done.

If Mettaton isn’t going to let you have your lunch break, you’ll take matters into your own hands. Quite literally, you think, as you quietly slide your phone onto the desk so that your boss remains painfully unaware of your scandalous disobedience.

You don’t really know how it got to this point. He never particularly liked you from the start, although you guess he just knows so many people that treating you like an inconvenience is just second nature to him. You think you’d get quite worn down with all the socialising, too. But…he’s a robot, so surely there should be some wiring or shit in him to combat any hint of introvertedness considering he was built to entertain.

Anyway. He’s always just treated you with a sort of passive, dismissive air, shrugging at your suggestions to make his life easier rather than taking them on board. Eventually you just stopped being helpful. Then he seemed to take your end of the weird dismissive shit stick as a personal attack, purposefully antagonising you because you won’t give him any more help…you guess? Even though he never wanted it anyway?

He’s a complex one, your boss.

“Have you sorted out the travel arrangements for my June 9th concert yet?” he asks suddenly, making you jump as he slaps both hands down onto his desk. You hate this job. “My limousine won’t drive itself, you know!”

“How does an Uber XL and a Holiday Inn Express sound?”

Oh, boy. If looks could kill. But fortunately looks won’t have to, as you’re sure that your boss is about to wring your neck with his bare hands when his assistant pops her head through the door to tell him that there’s an Uber Eats driver waiting outside.

 

* * *

 

 

“You know, if one positive thing can be said for you, it’s that you do have nerve, darling,” Mettaton says, watching you with disgust as you shove more fries into your mouth. You wonder if he’s somewhat incorrectly quoting Rupaul. “While it doesn’t make things any easier for me - or yourself, quite frankly - it’s a quality I admire in people.”

Here we go. He’s about to give you some long dramatic speech before he fires you, right? You take a bite of your burger. Lukewarm and, like, 90% lettuce. Great.

“To flat-out go against what I said…I, me, Mettaton…that takes something. And I—“

“Not really, I was just really hungry.”

His disgust turns more to a steely (ha) glare as he leans back into his chair. It swivels slightly so you can’t catch his gaze immediately. “You seem to have a problem with not knowing when to stop, don’t you? Maybe that’s the nerve. Or maybe you’re just intent on annoying me. I’m sure you know your own intentions so speculating myself is pointless. All I know is that things will be indefinitely worse for you if you keep this little charade up.”

You bite back a snarky comment, just to render his first sentence slightly wrong. He continues, maintaining unnerving eye contact all the while. “However, like I said, that resilience is something I admire. To be so determined to do something so minor…makes for excellent business skills. So, darling, I’m going to reward you by paying you something extra.”

You stop chewing.

“In exchange, you’re going to have the _wonderful_ fortune of staying overnight in my _wonderful_ office, replying to all of my _wonderful_ fans and their _wonderful_ little emails!”

Despite still not chewing, you nearly choke.

“So from 7pm onwards, after I’ve strutted off back to my penthouse, you’ll be free to start working through all of those declarations of love, marriage proposals, downright filthy propositions, and whatever else happens to be lurking in that folder until I return at 9am. I think with your creative thinking and determination,” his expression has turned far too sadistic for your liking, with a smirk creeping across his cheek and his eyes still locked onto your own, “you’ll find this rather enjoyable, don’t you think?”

You swallow down the last of your lettuce mouthful. “How many are there?”

“Oh, goodness knows, honey. They all redirect into a separate little inbox so my work doesn’t get cluttered! But last time I checked, there were around…oh, I don’t know, ten thousand at least?”

Okay. Well, if you can come up with a template and sort of structure—

“And one more thing. You’ll notice that the copy and paste functions will be disabled remotely on your computer. I can’t have everyone thinking it’s not my gorgeous self responding, so each reply will need to be at least five hundred words in length, and all written out individually so everyone gets to feel just as special as I myself would like to make them feel. Aren’t I just the kindest, darling? No wonder everyone loves me.”

“That’s bullshit!” You can’t stop it from coming out a little louder than intended, and Mettaton looks thrown for a brief second. “You cannot expect me to write over ten thousand emails in a single night and not give me the ability to mass send or at least have a fucking template. This is actually inhumane. Where are my worker’s rights? Is there not a fucking union here or anything?”

“I think you’ll find I’m well within my rights to ask as much of you when you take so much unauthorised paid leave. You’re simply making up for lost time. Think of it that way and I’m sure it’ll be far less of a chore,” he says, and then he cackles like some anime supervillain. You hate him so, so much and yet there’s something about the dark, rich tones of his laugh, the slight crackle of static within it…

He pushes away from his desk, standing up and finally breaking eye contact with you.

“Now, I believe you have some other work to catch up on while I just pop out for a quick coffee.” Liar, he can’t even drink. Probably. “Don’t work yourself too hard, now, darling. Toodles.”

And just like that, he fucks off out the door, leaving you to your own devices until he decides he wants to fuck right back after a non-existent coffee. He just wants the last word, doesn’t he?

You really do not like him. _Him._ Mettaton. _The_ Mettaton. It doesn’t feel right that you’re working for him, but irrespective of that point, you weren’t aware he could be such a sadistic bastard. And yet there you are, watching black liquid slide onto his lips, watching the slight twitch upwards of the corner of his mouth when he knows he has you trapped. Watching the way he watches _himself_ in the mirror, admiring every angle, appreciating how hot he _knows_ he looks.

Fuck it, you didn’t know he was a dickhead behind the scenes but you really can’t stop yourself from being attracted to him. Although you guess that was why he was made, wasn’t it? Wasn’t he supposed to be the all-singing, all-dancing, all-loving entertainment robot that made his fans weak at the knees? Quite honestly, you’d never really been a lover of his songs, but you weren’t exactly going to pass up the opportunity to work with an international superstar. In your mind you two were going to get buddied up - him in his pink faux fur jackets and you in your…plain black jeans - and go out on the town, sharing secrets and bitching about coworkers and whatnot, but you guess it was never going to happen like that. He doesn’t have the time nor the patience to devote either to anyone he doesn’t care about, and you _clearly_ don’t make the cut.

It doesn’t help that you keep antagonising him, but whatever. Whatever! It makes the time go slightly faster.

You think about your workload for tonight again and your blood boils.

 

* * *

 

 

 He had left just as unceremoniously as he did when he went to grab ‘coffee’ after lunch - and for Mettaton, that’s quite remarkable considering most things he does have an unnecessary amount of pizazz attached to them.

“Oh, my, would you _look_ at the time!” he had remarked, comically extending his metal noodle arms out and pointing at his wrist. There was no watch on it, nor has there ever been a watch on it. “Seven o’clock! Time for me to make some moves.”

He switched his computer off without saving anything (although you don’t think he’s doing actual work on there anyway) and slipped off his chair, sliding a nail file off the desk and stepping around to the corner of it to lean against whilst he sawed at his acrylic nails. He focused on that for all of five seconds, then faced you while he continued.

“Tell me again so I know you were listening, gorgeous. What is it that you have to do tonight?” he taunted, his words dripping with artificial sweetness. He smiled at you as if he’d done absolutely nothing wrong.

“Emails,” you had replied through gritted teeth, not even wanting to look over at him and already opening up the inbox in preparation.

“And how many are there to do?”

“Ten thousand.”

“Perfect! And finally, what are the office rules?”

“No friends, no phone calls unless it’s an emergency, no using your computer or looking through the filing cabinet,” you growled, “and no opening up your desk drawer in case I can’t stuff your massive ego back into it.”

He snickered. “Now, now, no need to be rude. Save all your emotions for pouring your heart out to those fans.”

His heels click-clacked against the wooden floor as he stepped closer to you, watching you intently like a lion after their prey. That butter-wouldn’t-melt smile was still plastered onto his stupid fucking face. He suddenly lifted a gloved hand under your chin to force you to look at him.

“Don’t be up too late, _sugar,_ ” he smirked.

“Harassment in the workplace,” you spat, and you tugged your head away from his grip. He simply laughed again and strutted out, letting the door slam after him and leaving you where you are now: stuck in a cold, dark office, with just your laptop and phone for company. Only, he knows about your social media, so you can’t tweet the night away, and he’ll be expecting all ten thousand emails done in the fourteen hours that he’s probably off fucking the same fans that you’re writing to. So of course, you have nothing much else to do other than intentionally sabotage his work in order to get yourself fired. 

As soon as you’re sure that your cheap David Bowie impersonator of a boss has left the building, you spring up from your own desk and take a seat down at Mettaton’s instead, revelling in how plush and comfy his too-big chair is. After idly shifting back and forth in it for a couple of minutes, you turn your attention back to the matter at hand. You only get as far as switching his computer back on before you hit a snag.

Password protected. Shit.

You input a range of basics, such as 1234 or PASSWORD and funnily enough, they don’t work. Only a fool would have all of his important files tucked behind a password that’s so blatantly obvious. Proving himself to not _only_ be a prime example of a fool but also a prime narcissist as well, his computer unlocks immediately for OHYES, his TV show catchphrase. You’re greeted by a landscape shot of Mettaton himself sprawled across a piano as his desktop background, distracting from any and all desktop icons as his teeth tug a single black grape from the bunch whilst he casts his eyes down at the camera seductively. Ugh. You fucking hate this guy.

The only icon you can see is embedded in the grape that he’s biting, so you click on it and it seems to open up his main application tray. Programs, games, possible nudes and other software litter the folder, but you’re drawn to an icon titled simply ‘ALBUM’, and you double click on it without hesitation. It opens up a folder with an expanse of audio files, and sure enough, each one is an unreleased recording of songs you assume are off his newest album. You fire up Chrome and open up his two main social medias, Twitter and Instagram, hoping for further hints from them on what he might be releasing and when. If suspicion serves you correctly, you could have just stumbled upon one of the most anticipated albums of this year, and it’s _right there in front of you for you to let out into the wild._

_One week left!_ his Twitter feed screams, and you guess that after those seven days he’ll be dropping all of these songs. This final week is crucial for business and promotion, as it builds up hype for the album - which is apparently titled _Lipstixxx_. How cringey and mid-2008 - and helps him to get his name into the spotlight and chart positions for his singles before everything is released.

Too bad he left you in charge, huh?

You compress the ‘ALBUM’ folder into one big ZIP file, renaming it to ‘LIPSTIXXX’ and making sure to leave in a little Notepad file that simply says ‘enjoy, darlings!’. After all, Mettaton _did_ give you one job and that was to impersonate him, so impersonate him you shall. You load a file-hosting site and start uploading the folder, drafting out your joint tweet and ‘gram caption while you wait.

_Hey beauties! Feeling especially generous and kind tonight, so this one’s for all of you - Lipstixxx, a week early. I can’t wait to be hearing myself all over the world again soon < 3_

And then the file is finished uploading, the link is attached to the end of your convincing caption, the album cover is selected, and both posts are sent out into the world, and the rush hits you. You may or may not have just wrecked Mettaton’s career a little bit, but he’s also wrecked your confidence and sleeping schedule, so score one to you, you think.

The first retweet comes sailing in. One, two, then one hundred and forty within a minute. Nearly five hundred within two. No publicity is bad publicity, surely. He can remedy this himself in the morning, so you shut the computer down again and slip your elbows onto the desk to rest your head on. Time for a well-deserved nap.

Oh god. You’re going to be fired. But this is exactly what you wanted, right?

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not back on my mtt bullshit bc i never left my mtt bullshit
> 
> stay tuned :~)
> 
> ig: @pxlarising  
> twitter: twitter.com/pxIarising


End file.
